


Dark Angel: Refracted

by uniquename056



Category: Dark Angel
Genre: Alternate Universe, Child Soldiers, F/M, Gen, Manticore, Misunderstandings, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-29 16:39:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6384265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uniquename056/pseuds/uniquename056
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 1 re-booted. AU. Max doesn't escape Manticore as a kid but still ends up in Seattle aged 18 anyways. In this alternate version of her life, she's hunting down Ben rather than running from Lydecker. Read for a twisted but strangely familiar trip the navigates through the DA universe - Eyes Only, Jam Pony, rogue family members amongst a completely different set of problems. Undercover!non-escapee!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Operation

**Author's Note:**

> This is a revamp of a story I posted awhile back on a different site. For this version of the story (and DA universe too), I really wanted to play up the more subtle insidious brainwashing happening at Manticore. I think this explains how Max in this story (and many other soldiers like Alec in canon) could be loyal to Manticore without being stripped of their personalities. They're definitely indoctrinated, just not quite as excessively as Brin. For Max, it might look something like this. Looking forward to comments!

452, having completed her most recent Psy Ops session, was being held under observation in med-bay until her EEG reading settled down. She looked pale, exhausted and had swollen, bloodshot eyes but didn’t seemed particularly distressed. 

Re-conditioning didn’t work too well on several X5 units including 452. They submitted to it willingly enough, after all they was bred and trained to be obedient, but the mental re-patterning just didn’t stick with some of them. 

For 452, it wasn’t so much her psychological make-up as her physiological neurochemistry that made her resistant to re-indoctrination. The stressors, psychological and pharmacological, necessary to induce new thinking and behaviours also induced critical seizures. The alternative non-fatal version of reprogramming just wasn’t as effective, not for her personality. 

Even as a young child, she always watching, listening, evaluating. Not questioning though. At least, not explicitly. This behaviour had been successfully extinguished her. This evidence was enough justify non-termination, proof that she could be permanently modified and controlled with the right handling. 

Left unchecked, 452 defaulted back to her normal patterning and behaviour but it was simple enough to schedule regular Psy-Ops top ups required to keep her in line. Then there was a session like this one that went FUBAR and resulted in a grand mal seizure.

452 didn’t notice Lydecker straight away when he entered med-bay. Instead, she was staring intently at a half-eaten turkey sandwich as if she could wish it out of existence.

“Good morning, Max,” said Lydecker.

452 flinched and would have knocked her tray to the ground except that Lydecker quickly steadied it. The ECG machine attached to her beeped and displayed erratic spikes in her heartbeat. More worryingly, there was a sharp fluctuation in the EEG machine too. 

“Good morning, s-s-sir,” she said, eying the machines too. 

Pushing the issue would certainly only exasperate the stutter so Lydecker let it drop without further comment. Instead, he asked: “How are you doing?”

“Okay,” she said, not especially convincingly. 

“I want to have a little chat. Off-the-record. Are you up for that?” Lydecker asked, settling down on a chair beside the bed. 

Without waiting for her agreement, Lydecker produced a folder containing several pictures of different bodies tattooed with 493’s barcode on their neck. 452 flipped through them looking a little wide-eyed and incredulous but didn’t say anything.

“Our best intel suggests that 493 will develop into a serial killer and cause considerable damage to Manticore in the process,” Lydecker explained. “There are significant resources being put together to stop this. You could be one arm of this operation. Such as assignment would be voluntary. Right now, we’re looking for your observations and insights. I’ll let you think about it.”

 

* * * * *

Max

As a rule, Max didn’t get long-term undercover operations. Although it was never made explicit, she understood it was because she was too risky. A few years ago, her psy ops handler, Dr. Erikson, explained to her about her fragile neurochemistry and labile behaviour patterns, her special treatment.

“The basic program just doesn’t stick with some of you. Exceptions to rule. That’s fine. Our other programs, which work beautifully on those outliers, are too brutal with your seizures. No reprogramming, you default to being a feral monster, too much reprogramming you’re dead. You see the dilemma here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We compromise,” he continued. “Treat you like goldilocks, find the porridge, chair and bed that isn’t hot, cold, high, low, hard, or soft. This translates to regular reprogramming, constant low-level drilling. You’re hearing ‘constant punishment’, maybe feel that’s a little unfair, but it’s really special privilege you’ve been granted. We decide it’s more hassle than its worth? The end. You’re fucked. Any questions?”

“No, sir.”

Max got with the program. It wasn’t so bad. She got used to the lingering headaches, the dry eyes, the tremors and the fatigue that never quite vanished from one session to the next. 

It was all quite mundane. For convenience, Erikson even gave her the access code and suggested she get settled in herself without needing a guard and technician. It was usually just the two of them, no techs or nurses.

Except the annual intensive session. That was a nightmare. It was the authentic Psy-Ops experience faced by all other X5s, except with the added bonus of nearly fatal seizures that put her in med-bay for days. 

Erikson didn’t administer these annual sessions, citing inconsistent preferential treatment between X units that he regularly treated and farmed it out to different handler. Standard practice. 

Erikson certainly checked out her file though, probably was even bought in to consult when things went sideways. Max didn’t ask and he didn’t offer this information.

There was no better person to ask about 493 than him even if they didn’t have a scheduled appointment. After being released from med-bay, Max let herself into the Psy-Ops department using the access code and tracked him down to kitchen.

“Ah, Goldilocks, social call?” quipped Erikson. He gestured for her to join him in the kitchen, where he was making, of all things, porridge, and looking much too pleased about this.

Max shrugged, feeling tongue-tied, stiff, and slow like she did after intensive Psy-Ops, and didn’t obey, not right away. 

The kitchen was out-of-bounds. 

The gesture was an order. 

Mutually exclusive impossible orders to obey.

“I’d offer you some, but it’s probably too lumpy for you,” he continued, unconcerned about her freezing in the doorway, acting like his usually snarky, casual self.

“Tell you what, I’ll make you some hot chocolate,” he offered. “You’re shaking. If it’s physiological, the milk will help you, and if it’s psychological, the hot chocolate has magical powers. Let’s go to my office.”

After Max drank the hot chocolate, Erikson insisted on checking her vitals even though she was wearing a medical wrist band and portable machines. He jotted them down on a post-it and patted her on the shoulder. “You seem fine to me, Goldilocks, why are you here?”

Max handed him the file the Colonel had given her yesterday in med-bay. Erikson flipped through it quickly, as though he had seen it all already and frowned. “How did you get these?”

“Colonel Lydecker, sir.”

“Were you asked about 493 in your annual?”

Max shook her head.

“Looks like the Colonel is handling you with kiddie gloves for now,” Erikson remarked. “Tell him what he wants to know.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“Or maybe you don’t know what you know,” Erikson countered. He drummed his fingers on the file and looked thoughtful. 

“Okay, don’t freak out, these killings have elements of a superstitious ritual that we can trace back to your unit. The missing teeth. It was this weird fluke operant conditioning thing developed in your unit,” said Erikson.

Max nodded, matching his words with fuzzy static-y memories.

“Interesting, psychologically, but it was extinguished in most of you fairly readily. 493, I suspect, is undergoing that extinguishing now with the frantic burst of behaviours. The question is how much damage he’ll do before it stops? And, knowing his pattern, can we get to him sooner? This is where you might come in. You will know much more about the story. Think about it. Tell him.”

“I mean, yeah, but…I don’t want to get into trouble. Special privilege, too much hassle, you’re fucked etc.”

The monologue had made an impression on her. 

“You feel you’re in a tricky spot, damned if you do, damned if you don’t,” Erikson surmised. “How about, you keep your secrets, no need to share, but you solve the 493 problem without back up? I’ll handle your mental fallout like I did before and you’ll be back to yourself in no time.”

“You can’t promise any of that,” said Max, shaking her head, not even considering the possibilities, just hearing the sheer implausibility of it all. 

She wasn’t even cleared for basic undercover operations let alone a black operation like this.

Max did micro operations, basic security and babysitting jobs for the rich and paranoid. These usually amounted to her looking pretty and unthreatening in a nice dress at fancy functions while keeping an eye out. Regularly enough, she was drafted by the FBI or CIA to be a teenage human prop for a few days. 

“I can ask and you know that I’ll ensure things proceed on the agreed terms whatever they may be.” Erikson picked up his phone and looked at her expectantly, waiting for the answer.

“I-I don’t know, please, don’t,” Max pleaded.

Max was finding it very hard to breath all of a sudden. Like there was no oxygen in this room. It felt a bit like being under water. The words were distorted and muffled. Her head was pounding too.

“Calm down, Goldilocks,” said Erikson. He dropped the phone and had his hands raised passively, unthreateningly, in the air. “Breathe. Don’t make me whip out the cliché paper bag or oxygen mask.”

Once Max had obeyed, Erikson resumed their previous conversation without any commentary on the panic attack. 

“You have a couple options here. Pretend like none of this is happening is not one of them.”

“Fine,” Max muttered. “Call him.”

* * * * * 

Lydecker 

452, although released from med-bay, was still under significant observation. She wore a mobile EEG headset, finger tip oxygen monitor, portable heart monitor and medical sensor band. She was sitting cross-legged in the chair across from her Psy Ops handler with her back to the door.

Dr. Dean Erikson was as much as godsend as he was a pain in the ass. Erikson had apparently never heard a rule that he liked and went out of his way to disregard regulation but Lydecker couldn’t argue with the effective results the man produced. 

452 immediately stood at attention and saluted when Lydecker joined them. It was awkward gesture while wearing a headset and pulse monitor, but she managed it smoothly enough. Although Lydecker noted the tremor still in her hand and the color drained from her face after she jumped up so quickly. 

“At ease,” he instructed. He gestured back at the chair. “Sit.”

452 sank back down. Lydecker sat on her other side. He spotted the telltale open file on Erikson’s desk, confirming that they had been discussing 493.

“I see you’ve looked at the file,” Lydecker commented mildly. “Anything to share about why X5-493 is running around murdering civilians?”

“Lousy childhood?” she mumbled.

Lydecker ignored the attitude. “Do you empathize? Same childhood, same chemical imbalances.”

“No sir,” she said, subdued. 

“I suspect 493 has always been a little bit more bloodthirsty, whereas 452 is…squeamish,” Erikson offered.

“Squeamish?” she echoed, a little indignant.

“Sensitive, fragile, you know what I mean,” said Erikson, dismissively. “Don’t look so surprised. Why don’t you think you haven’t been up for assassinations? I’m not saying you can’t or won’t, I’m sure you would, but it would upset your mental patterning. You won’t develop 493’s murderous tendencies, even if you had the opportunity like he has to physically manifest it. I’d guarantee it.”

Erikson had already reassured Lydecker of this fact. He had speculated the psychosis was isolated to 493 only and didn’t express concern about the other escapees. Or, at least, any concern greater than them roaming unmanaged as they already were doing. 

“Because 452 is so delicate, I recommend her role be minimal or completely autonomous in the 493 situation,” said Erikson.

452 bristled at the word ‘delicate’ but kept her mouth shut this time. Erikson was goading her, manipulating her under the guise of his casual messing, just like he promised Lydecker yesterday. He had never used these sorts of terms to describe her personality before. He chose ‘perceptive’, ‘discerning’ and ‘introverted’ instead and rounded it off with ‘wilful’ and ‘reactionary’. 

“Surely autonomously is the worst solution for a fragility? Sounds like a protocol for being overwhelmed and incapable,” Lydecker argued. 

“Fortunately, you’ve trained her to be resilient despite her sensitivity,” Erikson acknowledged. “She will manage quite effectively, if she can personally control things, but nonetheless will find it distressing and need considerable support and re-education to regain her approved optimal mental patterning.”

452 was studying Erikson, head cocked to the side, and looking thoughtful, if a little annoyed, but nodded in agreement. 

“You’re proposing all or nothing. What does that mean?” asked Lydecker.

“She goes undercover as a rogue to retrieve 493. Or she forgets this conversation ever happened,” said Erikson. “I do see your point about moderate contribution being reasonable but 452 isn’t much one for moderation or being reasonability. It will backfire.” 

“You understand, Max, that you’re uniquely qualified to handle his situation and also fuck up?” asked Lydecker.

Here was the sensible opportunity to back down. But 452, with her reactionary tendencies and impulsive streak a mile wide, was incapable of taking this course of action after Erikson’s goading, after years of only getting short-term jobs and being passed over for undercover operations, final given an opportunity to regain Lydecker’s approval. 

“I’ll do it,” 452 said quietly. Clarifying, she added. “Retrieve 493, sir.”


	2. The Normal Deal

__

Max

"What are the rules?" Erikson asked Max, fitting a med band on her wrist.

It looked like a fit-bit, had the logo and all, but it was wolf in sheep's clothing in that sense. For starters, it was designed from weird polymer material so it pretty difficult to apply and remove. Not that she need to because the battery was basically indefinite. It recorded steps, sure, but it really was there to monitor her vitals and track her if she went off-grid.

"Stay in Seattle. Wear the med band. Check in after a month. Don't fuck up," Max recited.

"If you fuck up?"

"Contact base immediately."

"What constitutes fucking up?"

"Letting 493 get away. Endangering op-sec. Defection."

"Good. How about liaising with the rogues?"

This was a trick question. "Um, no? Sir?"

"That's right. Unless they infect you with their lies. It's risky. So avoid them. But you do not need to retrieve them. Not a priority. Once the mission is up, you can report their information and someone else will take over. Again, we don't expect any information. Your focus is 493."

"Yes, sir."

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine," she lied.

He smirked. "Your pulse is elevated and your pupils are dilated, your anxious as fuck, but sure, call that fine if you'd like but I'm not buying it."

Max glared at him. Why ask the question if he already knew? Sometimes it was like he was in her head, which actually was probably his job description, but it was still freaky.

"Fine, I'm anxious to impress Colonel Lydecker with this successful mission," Max reframed.

"He'll be happy to hear that," said Erikson. "Check this wrist band feels okay?"

She wriggled her wrist about experimentally and nodded.

"Looks like you're good to go. Anything else? Speak now or forever hold your peace."

"I'm good."

The first month was dedicated towards assembling the bits of her rogue life in Seattle, a city that Ben was predicted to hit up soon, and make herself into attractive and authentic psychopath/rogue bait.

These parameters were so stupidly loose that Max decided to join a dance school. She lied and pretended to be 16 so she could join the serious pre-pro teen classes that trained for 18 hours a week do the cool stuff after watching a bunch of crappy dance movies and deciding that it seemed like the next best thing to flying.

All her ballet experience came from a few hours of lessons in training to be an ice-skater for one of her first jobs where she faked being a serious ice-skater for a week. The ice-skating version of ballet, it turned out, didn't quite hold a candle to ballet version.

The discipline, hard work and intensity that she hadn't appreciated turned out to be exactly the things that kept her there and not so much the tricks and the feeling of flying. In all the chaos of the outside world, it kept her balanced, felt like a slice of normality. There were the uniforms, the rigid schedule, the scary teachers, and sense of working towards something.

That was just for fun (and, she supposed, her mental sanity too). For, the operation she found a job in a dodgy pawnshop and dragged up dusty and half-forgotten memories from her childhood while pursing various articles and books of psychopathy and trying to feel like a rogue looking over shoulder and staying on the radar.

Needless to say, she wasn't making any major progress, not until one day when a customer took notice of the thesis she was reading.

"Nice book," remarked the guy. He was looking to buy a counter-top fan. He'd been in twice before, just browsing during Max's shift and attempting to haggle yesterday with her boss, Harry.

"Thick glasses, terrible vests, pain in the ass. Tell him to go to Hell, that he's not getting a single extra cent off," Harry had warned.

Max got verbal updates like this or post-its stuck on the til regularly. Since day one, Harry encouraged her to work on her bad attitude, develop it into something much worse.

"Bad cop, bad, cop," was Harry's business motto. "Keep looking like a good cop though, it throws them off, gives them the idea they can con you, when that's really our game play."

"Nice face," Max sneered without looking up from the thesis.

It seemed like a strange business strategy, but Max wasn't bought up to question things like this, especially if they seemed to work effectively. They were the type of orders she could get on board with.

"Pyschopathic personality in adolescence – genetic and environmental influences," the guy read, plucking the book out of her hands. He squinted at her. "You not a bit young to be a grad-student?"

"What would you know about grad school?" asked Max. She snatched the book back and put it down behind the counter away from his grubby hands.

"I have several doctorates," he said like they were as easy as having seven kids or shoes.

Max laughed. His expression didn't change. He was being serious. She looked him up and down. He did look like a book person. It was a bit rich for him to call her young. He looked about thirty, which worked out about right for one doctorate but several placed him as a child prodigy in grad school.

"Well, Doctor," she drawled, "with all due respect, what the hell are you doing here looking for a cheap fan"

He sneered. "A doctorate won't get you out of this job, not a wishy-washy psychology one. My advice is to quit while you're ahead Missy, spend that tuition money on a motorcycle. Be more use to you."

"Plan B is taking up applied self-directed psychopathy," Max quipped.

He sighed. "Just give me the damn fan."

"Seeing as you asked so nicely," Max muttered and set about organising the sale. No haggling. Just resignation. Summer in Seattle was sticky and hot; the fan was worth its price.

He paid full-price, and said that one of this messengers would collect in tomorrow. He tossed a creased business card on the counter. Ronald Regan, Jam Pony Express.

"Oh and, that author has been largely discredited. The thesis is a disaster. Small N numbers, poorly matched controls, inappropriate statistical tests, falsified data, plagiarised work – it got nothing right. I wouldn't waste your time," he called over his shoulder.

It seemed awfully convenient that an expert with several doctorates under his belt would casually wander into the shop and leave with this insight. But it was also far too blatant to be a message from Lydecker.

"Think of it as Black-ops," Lydecker had said before she left. "Off-the-books. Too many of the escapees have slipped by fingers through leaked information. As far as they're concerned, you're the real deal, one of them."

If Regan wasn't Manticore, who was he? He was potentially a very interesting person to know, someone that could see things and make connections that Max could not. He was also the type of guy that could sell her out in a heartbeat. This meant Max had a side mission: get the low-down on Doctor Ronald Regan.

Regan went by Normal these days. It was a sarcastic moniker bestowed on Regan by one of his employees and had stuck. Regan wouldn't know normal if it came up to him with 2.5 kids and a white picket fence chatting about the weather and football pre-Pulse. He was an awkward outcast then, a controversial academic figure, and now an overqualified misfit, running a haphazard courier service.

None of his academic work specialised in psychology or psychiatry. His advice didn't stem from expertise, which focused on linguistics, anthropology, archaeology, and theology, but rather a general interest. It turned out to be spot-on too. He knew his stuff alright. Max spent hours pouring over Normal's life and work, trying to get into his head as a stepping-stone to get into Ben's head.

All she got was a vague conspiracy theory that Jam Pony was actually a sociology experiment Normal was both running and participating in and would end up in a journal in next few years. This, Max knew, was slightly crazy. It meant she had to stop reading and go visit Normal. Get facts.

"Not hiring. I've got enough deadbeat, no-good bums," said Normal, not bothering to glance up from his clipboard.

"Nice fan," said Max, angling it slightly so she could catch the cool air.

Normal slapped her hand away and re-positioned the fan towards himself. He looked up and scowled seeing Max. "It's mine," he said possessively.

Max held her hands up. "Yeah, whatever. And I'm not looking for a job either. I hear the boss is a jerk."

"What do you want?"

"Your brain," said Max. "You were right. I'm not a grad-student, but I am someone with a professional interest in psychopathy and you seem like an interesting person."

"You're not a grad-student, and you're not just a shop girl. What are you?"

"A genetically engineered Frankenstein killing machine," said Max sarcastically.

Normal rolled his eyes, but his eyes flickered off to the side, as if turning this over in his head as a possibility. He looked her up and down and shook his head, this possibility dismissed as crazy. Not so smart after all then.

"Why would I help you?" he asked after a pause.

Max shrugged. "Boredom? Curiosity? I don't know. Quid pro quo. Name your terms."

"Come back at 7 after business and we'll discuss it then," Normal said, hedging his bets.

He would agree. They both knew it. He had nothing better going on in his life. The only question was what he needed from Max. He'd probably have a couple of interesting ideas by closing, but nothing that Max couldn't handle.

"Alright," said Max.

* * * * * 

__

Normal

Normal inherited Jam Pony from his father, who had died of a heart attack. He wouldn't have kept the place, but one couldn't afford to be picky in the aftermath of the Pulse. He figured he could keep it and run it until he could find a better job. Nine years later it was a life sentence. He never quite left academia, keeping up with new articles and work in his various fields, with the vague aim of publishing again someday.

This was why he recognised the thesis that girl in the pawnshop was reading. He was more intrigued by her though. Not the usual pawn shop employee. There was something markedly off about her. More clean-cut than the type that feed off the misery of others. It was the way she moved, the way she held herself, graceful and poised, deliberate and refined, like she was a ballerina or ninja. Maybe she was a psychopath in making or an intense method-actor.

Without a doubt, she was trouble and this gut feeling was confirmed when she appeared in Jam Pony with a business proposition. Trouble with a capital T, which he had plenty of already, but he was intrigued.

It was a joke, a throwaway comment – Frankenstein assassin. The sort of nonsense his employees invented to explain their absences and lateness. What if it wasn't? There was something preternatural about her even before this sarcastic comment. That's why Normal agreed to meet her later, see if he could suss out her back-story.

"She new blood?" asked Sketchy, checking out the girl as she sauntered out the door. He was half-slouched on the counter and slack-jawed.

"Something like that," Normal dismissed. He checked his clipboard and tossed a package at Sketchy. "Hot run, sector two. Get going."

He was half-distracted throughout the day and found himself with a backlog of receipts to be handled once he was alone. He didn't even notice to girl's arrival just that he once looked up and she was there, perched on the counter with her legs swinging, looking distracted.

"What's your name anyway?" he asked.

She didn't react for a long moment, and then: "I'm Max."

It was the sort of reaction that made her answer seem like a lie – the hesitation, the blankness – but the name rolled off her tongue easily. Max was a strange one alright. It wasn't a hard question; if she wasn't lying, why the pause? It probably was lie.

This was okay though. Normal just needed a name, to stop thinking of Max as just her or girl. A name established trust and rapport, key tools for getting to the bottom of her back-story.

"Give me your pitch, so I know what I'm working with," Normal said.

"There's this guy, let's call him Ben, he used to work for a particular facility and went rogue awhile back. He's been killing people and I'm looking for him," said Max.

A top-secret government facility. Messed up ex-agents. A manhunt. Normal would buy this. But how did Max enter the equation? She was awfully young to be an agent or analyst. She probably wouldn't involve an outsider like himself either.

"What does that make you?"

"His sister."

"Are you trying to protect him or capture him?"

Max flinched and looked down at her feet. "I want Ben to be safe. If he stopped this, laid low, they might go back to not prioritising him again."

This was dangerous territory. Stuff that Normal knew better than to get caught up it. He was a sucker for conspiracies and drama though. This was a by-product of too much bad TV while writing up various theses.

"What do you need me for then?"

"The plan is to lure him to Seattle and talk sense into him," said Max. "You sound like you might have ideas on how to achieve both of these things.

It was a stupid, misguided plan. Getting him into town was do-able, but stopping the brother? Not a hope. Desperate people didn't always see things clearly, even if they were armed with the relevant knowledge.

Max was a kid really. In over her head. It was as ruthless to let her walk away as to exploit this. Except the latter would benefit Normal. Get brother Ben to Seattle and Normal could turn him in, get some cash for his troubles and maybe a ticket into a better job.

"I might," said Normal. "I'll need to know specifics."

"You'll get them if you agree," said Max.

This was fair enough. It would be reckless for Max to put all her cards on the table too soon. Honestly, it was reckless even approaching him, but desperate people were often reckless.

It was probably reckless for Normal to strike up this alliance, but wasn't everyone a bit desperate these days?

"I agree."

* * * * * 

_Max_

"You never said what you wanted from this arrangement," Max reminded Normal.

"Work for me," said Normal.

"In Jam Pony?" Max clarified. She liked well-defined terms and roles. He could mean housekeeper, personal assistant, or any number of other sleazy tasks. Not that sleazy was a deal breaker, but no need to sign up for that if she could do something more honest.

"Yes. Not as a messenger, but manager. Part time," said Normal.

"Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, huh?" asked Max.

Not that they were enemies exactly. For her, Normal was a person of interest, but she was hardly an innocent stranger to him. Her brother was a serial killer. That shit was often genetic. You play it careful with relatives.

"It's convenient. It makes these little meetings legit and boring rather than something scandalous. I've been meaning to scale back my responsibilities, get an extra set of hands in, while you're around you'll do."

"Yeah alright," said Max. "I'll need to give Harry a week's notice."

She wasn't that attached to her job at the pawnshop. It was only ever temporary anyway. She'd have to do something to justify the part-time job. School? She could major in human genetics for kicks and giggles or do something related to killers to justify her appearance at Ben's crime scenes. It didn't matter yet. She'd figure it out later.

"That's fine. Drop by tomorrow to sign the contract," said Normal.

It seemed strange that Normal didn't get an internal to act as part-time manager. Getting someone completely unqualified and inexperienced in off the streets seemed outrageous, but the staff didn't seem to care very much or that was the impression Max got the next day filling out the paper work.

"You don't look like a smuck. How did Normal convince you to take this job?" asked a floppy haired lanky guy, Sketchy.

"It's a decent job," said Max.

"Yeah, if your last job was working for the devil himself."

This wasn't that far from the truth. Lydecker nicely fit the role of the devil in the hell that was Manticore. Normal might be annoying and smug but he wasn't a bad person. At worst, verbal abusive and uncompassionate, but that was Lydecker in a happy fun mood.

"If it's that bad, why don't you look for a new job?"

"Original Cindy hates to burst your bubble, sugga, but we're all looking for new jobs," chimed in a second voice. It was a tall woman with an afro and an apparent tendency to speak in third person.

Sketchy nodded. "I'll give you two days of putting up with abuse from Normal, customers and us for crappy pay before you get what we're saying."

"Forewarned is forearmed," said Max. Max finished off the final bit of her paperwork and returned it back to the Normal, at the dispatch counter. "Contract. Sector pass. Application form. Aptitude quiz. Liability form. Gag agreement. All signed in duplicate. Do you want a personal statement too? It wasn't this hard getting into university."

"Speaks of the quality of university you attend," said Normal distractedly. "And the quiz was a trick. I didn't think you'd fall for the personal essay but I would love a piece on how your family made you who you are today since you're up for it."

Thinking back, she had thought it was weird quiz with tenuous links to the job but didn't care enough to question it. How had she not copped it was a psychological assessment? She spent her whole life being assessed so either she was was clued in or gullible and it looked like it was the latter. How dumb was she that she could identify a test?

"Huh, guess you would actually, and I grossly overestimated you," Normal sneered. "You can read and got a G.E.D so you've got most of this lot beat anyway."

"Hey Normal, we can read, yo, just not your girly curly handwriting," called Sketchy.

Since when was reading and writing cursive a specialist skill? It was one of the more apparently normal things they taught kids at Manticore. It seemed obsolete out in the real world these days. Max filled out the paperwork this way unless it specified capital letters. Mistake number one. She was already an imposer and she hadn't started yet. For all the strange skills they taught at Manticore, they didn't do a good job on how to be normal.


	3. Predicting Psychopaths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Any preference for narrators? The next chapter, Max meets Logan. There are 2 scenes both from her perspective but I'm thinking the second one might interesting from his view. It seems a little redundant to write the same scene twice but maybe I'll do bonus interludes.

Max

“Let’s just address some of the basics first, some of the key characteristics and risk factors for serial killers and psychopaths. You’re blaming it on this facility, but it was probably something always there ready to be triggered. We find the trigger, we find his motivation and the pattern and then Ben. I need an idea of who he is and why and how.”

“Okay. Shoot.”

Without the whole truth, Normal was only reinventing the wheel, adding an extra person going around in circles trying to figure out Ben. It was better than nothing. He was an unbiased outsider, he might notice some extra detail or make connections that she could not.

“Was Ben adopted? Physically or emotionally abused by your parents? A bed-wetter? Above average intelligence?”

Normal rattled out the questions and waited with his pen poised over a notepad for Max’s answers. He gestured impatiently with his hand. “Simple yes no questions. Keep up.” 

“No. Um, yeah I guess. It’s complicated, but yeah it probably falls under abuse. No to the bed wetting, but wicked smart,” said Max after a delay.

She shifted and toyed with her sleeve hems. She wasn’t just telling Normal about Ben. By extension, she was revealing herself and it made her vulnerable. She didn’t want his pity. 

“You don’t feel these urges do you? Or feel like you were born with a part of yourself missing? It can be his genetics or up-bringing thing or both. Any family history of violence or murder?”

“No…”

Not yet anyway. Ben could be the sole anomaly, or they might all be ticking time bombs ready to implode. That day in the woods got very messy. Lydecker himself was disturbed. It never happened again. Not like that. Max had written it off as a fluke. She couldn’t speak for the others, but she didn’t enjoy killing. But then again, Erikson snidely called her sensitive and fragile, so maybe she was the outlier in that sense.

“Hmm. Were the victims vulnerable people like runaways or prostitutes? Were they completely unconnected to Ben? Was the method of killing symbolic?”

“No, yes and yes.”

“Elaborate.”

“They were just normal people with families, jobs and friends. Different ages, genders, races, socio-economic status, hobbies, but you know, regular folk. I don’t know think Ben knew them. Otherwise the organisation would have tracked them down already. It’s a very distinctive killing, but I can’t really tell you what.” 

“Right. Did he hear voices or have an obsession with anything? Pornography? Clowns? God? Maths? Trains? Authority figures? Anything? Suffer any childhood traumas or imaginary friends?” 

“No voices. There was this thing though. A woman in a picture. She wasn’t an imaginary friend. She didn’t talk or exist really. It was like an idea or a myth. It was pretty important to him. 

These were exactly the memories Max was shying away from. They were fuzzy, badly formed, and itchy. They didn’t sit right in her mind, which meant that there has been so Psy-Ops tampering going on and she was scratched at the scab. 

“That’s it. Everything he is doing, it’s because of this woman,” said Normal.

“He described her as honourable and strong and pure. She wasn’t exactly an evil sinister presence. It was harmless,” Max protested. 

She wasn’t disagreeing as such. The teeth made it pretty clear that it was related to the Blue Lady, but Max didn’t get it. The Blue Lady was their version of the tooth fairy. They believed for a while and then they grew up. It was a nice story. It wasn’t one that led onto someone ripping other people’s teeth out. Except in Ben’s head that was. How did that happen?

“And then he grew up and she changed. Memories and ideas are vulnerable. You said that they did something to him. It’s probably a side effect.” 

They were all treated the same. Manticore was equal opportunities in that way, no favourites or victims. Or, at least, her unit was treated the same. There were different standards amongst units resulting in different training and expectations, but this was between and not within units. If Manticore were to blame, all her former unit would be on the same slippery slope as Ben, including Max herself, but Erikson seemed to disagree on this premise. That meant it was something on the outside that set Ben off. 

“There were others too. They believed in the woman. For a while anyway. They seem to be okay,” said Max. She wasn’t sure how to phrase this without implicating herself or inventing a whole bunch of siblings that would stretch the credibility of her back-story.

“People are different. Identical twins sharing a bedroom, for example, same genetics and environment, one of them is schizophrenic and the other healthy. Or one is an athlete and the other a scientist. Tell me the myth.”

Max hesitated. “I can’t. I’m could be putting you in danger by saying anything let alone going into specifics.”

“I’m an adult. I can make that call for myself. It’s my life to endanger,” said Normal. 

There it was. Permission to kill him for getting in too deep. She didn’t have to feel guilty now. This was a fun little academic puzzle for Normal. For the first time in years, he could put his sociology and theology expertise into use. 

“Don’t come crying to me when you’re dead then,” said Max. 

In a way, she wanted to tell someone. It was constantly going around in her head, the same circles over and over again. And she was blinded by Ben’s virtue to see events clearly. Normal, however, was an unbiased outsider. It would be easier for him to help her rather than her floundering alone. 

Max traced shapes onto the tabletop between them and avoided Normal’s stare as she recounted the origins of the Blue Lady. It wasn’t the entire truth. She wrote herself out of the story, for starters, but told him about the card, the apparent miracle, the teeth sacrifices and the good and bad places.

As hard as it was to say this to Normal, it was relief not having in buzzing alone in her mind anymore. Someone else knew. Someone else who didn’t her her mental problems knew and could tease through the information. 

“It’s like I was there,” said Max, with a half-shrug. “Ben was a born story teller.”

Normal was on the edge of his seat, wide-eyed and fascinated. He picked up his pen and scribbled down a few notes, which he’d forgotten to do during story time.

“I don’t want to make this about you, Max, but how does that tie into your life? Your family were strong Evangelical Christians. You’re saying that you didn’t recognise Mary, the mother of God?”

“Your background check was clearly half-assed,” said Max, rolling her eyes. “Did you notice the lack of Ben? They wiped him out as if this could make him cease to exist. Rewrote my family history. They made up that stuff. It’s like damage control or something. It’s not true, it was never true, that’s why I’m calling myself a lapsed Christian and ticked the no religion box on your form.”

This was a coincidence, completely unrelated to Ben or the Blue Lady, just details of a complex and rich back-story that ought to throw off Lydecker if she were a runaway. Transgenic were invented by man. There was no whitewashing this fact and it was hard to reconcile that with faith. 

“The conspiracy grows,” Normal murmured. “How come you were able to walk free, knowing all this? You could have gone straight to the media and not just me.”

“Because it’s crazy. No one would believe me. At best, I’d also get a one-way ticket to the loony bin but more likely I’d be locked up in their facility, at their mercy. I was only there once and I never want to see it again. I never told them all that stuff. And they paid us off, assuming family loyalty only goes so far, especially when that’s the skeleton in the closet.”

“The victims…they had their teeth ripped out, didn’t they?”

“Yeah.”

The killings are either testing the faith of others or sacrifices that she calls for,” Normal speculated.

“One of the victims was a Pastor. He wasn’t Catholic though. The rest were affiliated to varying degrees with different faiths and branches,” said Max.

“None of them believe in Ben’s exact version, this so-called Blue Lady, so he isn’t necessarily targeting those who worship Mary, just those of faith.”

Max shrugged. The Blue Lady didn’t save Jack or Eva and they had believed. Any further testing seemed redundant. Clearly, it didn’t work. Serial killers were supposed to be logical. It didn’t add up. This wasn’t even considering Ben stamping his barcode on them all. This she couldn’t share with Normal.

“You said before that you wanted to be a potential victim, bait. That this was your endgame.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re in luck. That’s very achievable, perhaps inevitable, given that you know the true story,” Normal predicted.

Max shivered. She hadn’t considered Ben tracking down one of the others. It was reckless, they were equipped to fight him unlike the normal people, but it had a certain poetry that seemed to fit in with Ben’s MO. And probably something Lydecker and Erikson figured because they always described this job as being bait rather than being a hunter. They didn’t exactly spell it out, but maybe Max was just too slow at reading between the lines. 

“You got a plan?”

“You need to unlapse. Convert to Catholicism. Use your fabricated history to your benefit. Play up your transfer to a secular school to study science. Can you arrange it that your parents disowned you for this decision?”

Max was two steps ahead of Normal there. This already happened. It wasn’t anything to do with Ben. Max just wanted to make her story airtight. Creating an entire family took work so it was easier to cut them off, give them a reason to deny her existence and set them on the other side of the country if anyone went looking. She had toyed with the orphan approach, but it seemed like that would be too obvious for an escapee, surely Manticore had flagged that. 

Max nodded. She could get her fake parent’s disapproval without any difficulties.

“Good. Join the local religious community. Prayer circles. Retreats. Helping out at homeless shelters. Do it all. Make your presence felt without sacrificing the controversy. You can research that yourself. Ben comes to town and hits the local churches; you want him to hear the gossip about you. The big twist is that this is all nonsense and you’re you.” 

Funny that Max, who spent her life slightly resenting being bossed around, was happy to get this plan. With this, it was like maybe she could pull off this job. She had a fighting chance. She could do all that stuff and Normal seemed to think it could work. Maybe it wouldn’t, but it had potential and she had nothing else going on.


	4. Chapter 4

_Erikson_

452 was glitch-y. She did not function like a typical X5 unit. Then again, creating X5 series was a little more sophisticated than producing replica IPads that came in different colors. Same genetics, same environment, the same precise, stringent scientific and militaristic procedures, and still a spectrum of abilities and personalities emerged. Undetectable differences to many, even to those who should know better, but differences that Erikson saw clearly.

He joined Project Manticore as a consultant less than a week before the runaway incident. He had still been getting up to speed, still waiting for his clearance to come through and so-called special training signed off before being allow to see let alone meet the X5s, when he predicted a breakout attempt. 

“If it hasn’t happened, I’d give it a year,” he said, casually, flippantly. He knocked on a wood and make a joke about it. Then, it happened. 

Erikson was 23, newly single and chronically bored. That’s why he considered the job. He was promised a stimulating and exciting environment with the world’s greatest minds. He didn’t buy this. He accepted because of Lydecker who was intriguing enough that Erikson hadn’t him basically figured out off-bat. He stayed because the runway paradigm shift gave him a hypothesis, whole bunch of interesting guinea pigs and the all-clear to run an experiment that the half-hoped would join the notorious Stanford prison, Milgrim and Asch experiments in Psych 101.

Lydecker agreed readily enough to his proposal providing that Erikson fulfill some work for him. 

Quid pro quo.

Their arrangement included 452. At the time, all that Erikson knew about her was that she one of the runaway X5s that had been successfully retrieved. He got to know her a lot better in the subsequent years. She was one of the X5s intriguing enough to be bothered knowing and difficult enough to keep him interested. 

For 452, there was a narrow and instable margin between malfunctioning and magnificent. Fix her completely and risk making her a sub-operational automaton, if not a outright fatality. Leave her alone and risk the outright defiance and anarchy. Managed just so, she retained the capabilities and insights that made her such a promising, effective operative while reigning in the willfulness that made her unusable.

This particular job, apprehending 493, cast an unforgiving spotlight on all her flaws but also let her shine as though she was a star on Broadway. And, apparently, she could be just this because when Erikson checked in on her, he saw that she had taken up dancing.

Erikson expected her dancing to be technically near flawless, or certainly working steadily towards getting there. He couldn’t predict her capability to pull off of the artistry, the grace and lyricism. One of her first jobs involved going undercover as a pre-pro kid ice-skater at an intensive and her final performance piece had been flat and lifeless. Beautiful, technical, and completely empty. 

Same with 494, one of the male Seattle X5s, who had played a piano teacher recently. He wowed his mission handler with his technical skill, but Erikson was unimpressed on the artistry and emotional side. Technique alone was insufficient. Erikson saw right through it and so would most people with musical appreciation. Good enough to fool the targets though. It took the X5 nearly a month to grasp the feeling behind the music right on queue with his decision to defy operational parameters. Interesting that. Erikson kept his observations to himself.

It meant that when Erikson was due to make an appearance in 452’s newly fabricated life that it was always going to be at the dance school. He didn’t entertain the idea of university or her messenger job. They provided much less insight into her mind. He dropped into a recreational adult contemporary class that she was taking. 

“New in town,” he announced cheerfully. “Here for work, gone next week, but got the urge to dance.”

Just like that, the recreational adult contemporary class that had been turned into 452’s ballet private, was back into a class again, but this time a partner class because apparently 452 needed plenty of practice nailing lifts and Erikson, having admitted to being a former dancer, was all too ready to dust off some moves with little coaxing.

It was like riding a bike. Sure, it had been a little over ten years, but it was still there. Not all the strength and flexibility. This withered away after he ditched the teenage competition dance scene. He still knew the rhythm and feeling. It came rushing back.

There was something weirdly reassuring and effortless that it was 452’s body right up in his personal space after years away, his hands on her waist supporting her during balancing feats, controlling the momentum in turns and lifting her in the air. Or maybe not that surprisingly. She had spent years putting her mind into his hands, trusting him implicitly like he asked, so he couldn’t ask for a better partner.

Neither could 452. He could see exactly when partnering clicked with her, had felt her initial resistance, the block that had been holding her back, felt it unknot as she allowed herself be strong and malleable. From there, she accelerated through basics all the way into intricate complex techniques in the span of the hour right into the Romeo and Juliet pas de deux. 

There was an ethereal quality about her dancing, the right combination of technique, vulnerability, confidence and artistry that elevated him to same qualities. It was as though they were actually soul mates desperately in love, not just pretending for an audience, not just learning steps. It made him a better dancer. He hadn’t ever been this good before. 

Then, they were both right back on earth. 452 was slipping off her pointe shoes, rubbing her feet and finding blood on her tights, and he was guzzling water and catching his breath. 

“Great job, guys,” said the teacher. “Beautiful connection. Sure, we can’t convince you to come back, Dean?”

“Ah, I wish,” he said, regretful, explaining, “I travel a lot, next time I’m in town, for sure.” 

It was a little disappointing, even if it wasn’t unexpected, admitting that this was a one-time only experience. They would go right back to being handler and operative. He was already cataloging his thoughts and ideas, refining his appraisal of 452. The genuine human emotion delicately sewn through the artistry in her performance indicated that she on the edge of coming apart. However, her implicit trust in him confirmed her steady alliance. It boiled down to status quo as per usual for 452. Just like he suspected.

“How’s it going, Max?” Erikson asked, casually stretching out his calves, while studying 452 closely at the same time. The dance teacher was now on the phone and not paying attention to them. 

Max was on the floor, in an over splits, with her feet up on two blocks. “That’s really weird,” she said, not able to help herself.

“What?”

“You calling me Max. It’s usually Goldilocks or 452.”

Erikson had pointedly refused to use or acknowledge her chosen name, favoring the professionalism of her designation or making up his own nicknames, anything that didn’t have a connection to the runaways. He didn’t allow it be a challenge. Win or loose, this would only have reinforced the name, and all the negative behavior and connation associated with it. He knew that that she knew this. It wasn’t a secret or a truth. 

However, this was the very first time they had broached the issue. How could he avoid it when she was going around calling herself Max, playing a rogue X5?

“ _That’s _why you’ve yet to call me Dean,” he teased. “Go on. I know you’re super polite with your ‘Dr. Eriksons’ that are probably just Eriksons in your head but give my first name a whirl.”__

“Sure, um, Dean,” she managed.

Erikson smirked. “That’s pretty fucking weird.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’d actually be a little worried if you high-fived me and said ‘yo what’s up big D’. That would be a personality transplant.”

“Do you think I’m okay then?” 452 asked, tentatively, rising from her splits to swap legs around. Her left was tighter at the front, not quite reaching the full splits yet, so she had to support herself on her hands. It gave her an excuse not to look at him.

“Do you feel okay?” Erikson asked instead of answering.

“I guess.”

“Good enough for me,” he said, casually, now onto stretching his hamstrings. 

And it was. Erikson insisted on honesty and transparency, especially if it went against the standard Manticore party lines and kept his promises that her sharing would be free from repercussions. It was the most effective method for her. 452 was intuitive enough to tell him exactly what he wanted to hear and play along. Distinguishing this fake behavior from authentic conditioning would have been damn near impossible making re-education ineffective. 

“So whatcha been up to?”

“You’ve been watching if you’re here.”

“Not really. There’s no audio or video, just GPS, and I’ve been pretty busy doing Psy work at the Seattle base to be worrying about you.”

Busy managing 494 who had been carelessly handled by Seattle Psy-Ops team and resistant to Erikson’s interventions. It was painstaking and slow but Erikson was getting there, was slowing gaining 494’s trust and persuading him to inch out of the mental corner that he had been backed into by his previous handler.

Figuring out what made 494 tick was the main reason Erikson was in Seattle. Between 494’s psychopath clone and his own behavioral disturbances that last mission, 494 was quite the mystery to unbox. He was as glitch-y (if not worse) than 452. It was like getting a new toy to play with. Or, more accurately, a half broken toy to put back together and play with. 

It made sense to check on 452, reassure her, while he was on in town, but he wasn’t especially concerned about her, only intrigued by her life choices. 

“I got a job in a messenger service,” she explained. “I come here to dance. I’m gonna study genetics as a sophomore now that school had started up and I’m a part of a Catholic congregation here.”

“That is both oddly very specific and quite broad,” he commented. “Sounds like you’re pretty busy managing it all.”

“Bigger web, catch more flies,” she explained. “It’s fine though.”

* * * * * * * _Max_

It _was _all completely under control until she met a certain journalist and crusader called Mr. Logan Cale less than a week later. It was all Rob’s fault. It was him who dropped her name to the faculty head for the secret life of scientist piece.__

“I’m not a scientist,” said Max. “I empty bins and clean the windows. The closest I get to science is filling pipette boxes and loading the steriliser.”

Rob flapped his hand dismissively. “Details. We’ll let you play around some cells and do a Western Blot or PCR before the piece goes to print. That’s an experiment. Thus, you are a scientist and extra-credit or something.”

“Why me? You’ve got real scientists. Hundreds of undergrads.”

“Because you have a secret life.”

“Right. Because I’m a transgenic half-human, half-cat hybrid,” said Max.

An eye roll. “The beautiful ballerina bullshit. You were homeschooled, right? Your background is so clean. Where are the stupid teenager pictures? Were your folks scared that the devil might steal your soul if your picture was taken? They can’t make you look bad. And you’re short and cute. You wouldn’t be involved in anything bad.” “I’m not involved in anything bad?”

Not officially. Max wasn’t anymore associated with Manticore than Donald Duck. She had gone to great pains to hide this fact aside from the occasional impulsive quip.

“Exactly.”

“No I’m not.”

“Now you’re defensive. Less hostility and more animals frolicking around you in the woods, singing and braiding your hair.”

“What’s going on, Rob?” Max narrowed her eyes. She was going to ignore that fairytale crap and get to the point of this. 

“It’s not just a spin piece for publicity. I mean, yeah, that’s a big part. The department is contractually obliged to inform the public and show what we’re doing, but the guy doing the piece is a bit notorious. He’s looking for scandal.”

“You do it then. You know a lot more than me,” Max said. 

For starters, Rob was actually grad student conducting research, whereas she was just clocking up hours for a module / being used as slave labor as a cost cutting measure. At least half of her class had really gotten conned by the module description. If they weren’t trusted to do real research, why was Rob pushing her to liaise with the press? It seemed reckless. 

“I don’t come out during daylight. I murder animals on a daily basis. I read comic books. I look like this,” Rob listed matter-of-fact. “I kind of suck and I have something to hide. I’m one of the worst people for the job. You, Max, you are awesome.”

“Flattery gets you nowhere, and sarcasm gets you beaten up,” said Max. It was hard to tell with Rob sometimes. His default setting was dry and mocking. 

“It’s a smart career move. You’ll get publicity and a good reference from Cohen. That’s invaluable for getting funding. You see the economy out there, it’s next to impossible to get money for research. That’s why you want, right? You’ve made so much sacrifices to be here that you it would be stupid to throw away a good opportunity.” 

“You’re saying that you already told Prof. Cohen that I’d do it,” Max said.

“Kinda.”

“You’re such a dick.”

“Since you’re already aware of that you won’t be surprised that I will swear blind that you told me you would and then got cold feet. Your word against mine.” 

“You owe me, Rob,” said Max.

Prof. Cohen was _scary _. Not quite Colonel Lydecker scary but not a million miles off it either. She couldn’t exactly march down to his office and tell him that Rob lied or that she changed her mind. He had a sword in there and was prone to weird fits. Brilliant, yes, but unhinged. He was the weird scientist stereotype that this article was trying to dismiss.__

“Great,” Rob beamed. 

He reached down into his desk and produced a stack of papers that he plonked into Max’s hands. 

“You are hereby promoted from toilet cleaning duty to interview prep. Read these properly before tomorrow – there will be a pop quiz. Go see Seth now. He will do the induction and paper work to get you set up in cell culture. We’ll get you to make up some stock solutions in the lab afterwards so you’ll get to see where stuff is and look like you’ve been doing science here.” 

It was only because Max didn’t sleep that she managed to accomplish this and juggle dance, church and Jam Pony. The papers were technical and dense, much more advanced than her textbooks. Was all this work really necessary to fool a journalist? Max had done her research on Mr. Cale. He didn’t seem that threatening. She didn’t know what the big deal was.

In real life he wasn’t that threatening. He was in his early 30s, largely wheelchair bound, with rumpled hair, stubble and very white teeth. Harmless.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Cale,” Max said, shaking his hand. “My name is Max.”

“Max?” Logan glanced down at his notes.

“Ah, Grace Maxine Williams, sir. I go by Max. Long boring story,” Max clarified. “I’m an undergrad working in Prof. Cohen’s lab.”

“I see,” said Mr. Cale. “Let’s get started then. Firstly, thanks for agreeing to talk to me. I feel like the bogeyman or something, but don’t worry I don’t bite. It’s just a chat. And just ‘Logan’ is fine.”

This was a complete lie. It was an interrogation. Max would know. She had experienced both sides of this several times. Mr. Cale did the small talk and the typical questions about her secret life, her family, her interests and her time in the lab. Interspersed between these were trick questions. He wanted to know about ethics. Animal welfare. Cloning. Human experimentation.

“Have you ever heard of Manticore?”

Max’s heart skipped a beat. “Um, no, sir. Sorry. What’s that?”

“Just an urban legend,” said Mr. Cale, laughing, as if this was a pleasant and light conversation. “Allegedly, it’s a top secret military operation, which used recombinant DNA to produce a superior human…a warrior…an advanced infantry solider. What do you think about that?”

“With all due respect, sir, if it’s not in a peer-reviewed published journal, I’m not buying it,” said Max. “This is science. Not science fiction or mythology.”

“Funny that you say that, you are quite a strong Christian. Is God in one of these journals? How can you be a scientist and a believer?” 

Actually, Max would rather discuss Manticore than tackle this topic. She wasn’t qualified in either descriptions let alone both to comment. Normal suggested controversy and this was the perfect opportunity, but it was delicate. She wasn’t touching this with a ten-foot pole.

Max deflected the question, without addressing it at all, and returned to Mr. Cale’s story. This was probably his exact ploy and she skipped straight into the trap, but it beat the alternative. “How did you hear about Manticore?”

“Back in ’09 just before the Pulse a couple of the kids escaped from the facility. The story goes that they’re being hunted down.”

“Needle in a haystack.”

“Needle in a stack of needles. They’ve been evading capture for years. They look like you and me except they’ve got barcodes on their necks and can do amazing feats.” “Good for them. You look for a penpal or a pet or what?”

“An interested party. It would be excellent to get a lab rat perspective on science. Obviously, your animals can’t talk, but these folks can, and that’s career breaking stuff.”

“For selfish reasons,” Max mused.

Mr. Cale was smart. Smart enough to find out about Manticore. Smart enough to put two and two together for his own benefit. With transgenic stems cells he would be out of that chair ten times quicker. Quid pro quo. Some blood or bone marrow for money or ID. A desperate runaway might agree. Everyone was a winner. 

Only Mr. Cale didn’t know how to get in contact with one. Hence, these interviews. He was fishing for information. There was an excellent human genetics hub at the university with renowned researchers. It only made sense that there was some sort of collaboration or sharing of information. Max herself didn’t know and didn’t care. 

“It would be proof to expose Manticore. Shut down their experimentation,” said Logan. “It’s inhumane that something like that could be happening with our tax dollars and covered up.”

Thing was Max was smarter. She could play this to her own benefit. Mr. Cale was apparently a patient-researcher pretending to be animal rights activist pretending to be journalist. It was very too convoluted to arise by chance. There must be a network. Probably Eyes Only. Such a person offered an alternative approach to tracking down Ben. It was good motivation. It was also extra-credit for Manticore purposes. 

“Barcode, sir?” she asked.

“Yeah. Black and whites lines. Unmistakable.”

“I heard that was a new system for social services monitoring fosters kids,” said Max.

Mr. Cale shook his head. “Nah. They can’t just tattoo kids like that. It’s a cover up.”

“It’s no greater leap that what you’re claiming.”

“Who told you this?”

“A kid with a barcode.”

“Really?”

“If I was lying, why would I tell you the truth if you asked twice?” Max said. “But yeah. He wasn’t super human though. He had like epilepsy or something.” 

“That fits the story,” said Mr. Cale, leaning in, face animated now. “How did you know him?” 

“His name was Ben. He was in my church youth group for a couple weeks. I guess he ran away, or got placed into a different foster home. I never saw him again,” Max explained. She shook her head. “Why would a kid created by man go to church? It doesn’t add up, I think you’re clutching at straws.” 

“His folks were religious. Curiosity. A cover story,” Mr. Cale rattled off three reasons. “It sounds like a good fit. Can you draw a picture?” 

“Sure, but I won’t. Let’s say I believe you about all this, which I don’t, I would be putting him directly into danger. He was my friend. I’m not doing that.” 

“If you help me, you can control this,” said Mr. Cale. “Look, you said you ended up in Seattle because God had a purpose for you here. What if it’s this? Maybe you’re supposed to help me.”

Mr. Cale with his wide-eyes and passion was persuasive figure. Someone that Max, if she was really who she was pretending to be, was very vulnerable to falling for. He gave her a purpose and importance. It wouldn’t be suspicious if she bought his words. It would only be right. Max agreed. 

Confiding one person was reckless, but two was insane. Especially whey they had conflicting stories. It was these sort of chances that would get the job accomplished. Use all available resources. That’s what they were taught and that’s exactly what she was doing. She just had to keep the plates in the air.


End file.
